


Dear, Deer

by OverlyCheerfulRat



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Disabled Character, Gen, Locked-in syndrome, Murder, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 16:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21460684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverlyCheerfulRat/pseuds/OverlyCheerfulRat
Summary: What kind of life was he living when he couldn't even smile?
Comments: 20
Kudos: 190





	Dear, Deer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [realisations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realisations/gifts).

“Happy birthday, dear,” Gloria would say, rubbing his cold hands in hers. “Do you remember the day you was born?” And Alastor would blink once- no, of course not- and she would tell him.

“You was a perfect baby, like I always known you would be. The midwife said you was stillborn, but I weren’t scared- I known she was lyin’. I saw your little chest risin’, but that cunt ignored me when I pointed it out. She called a doctor, and they said you wasn’t dead, but you would be soon. Just cause you wasn’t cryin’ or squirmin’.” Gloria would ruffle his hair then and pick him up, change his clothes and diaper, brush his teeth and prop him up in a chair by the window, where she would continue the story.

“Course you didn’t die. They wanted to take you away- wanted to kill you. Said you wasn’t gonna live long anyway, said you was in pain. But I brung you home anyways and you was just fine. I stopped takin’ you to the doctors when you was five, cause they kept sayin’ you was dyin’. You’s just fine, dear. They ain’t seen anyone like you before, is all.”

It was true that the doctors at Charity Hospital had never seen a case like Alastor LeBlanc’s. Later- decades later, after his death- he would learn that it had been given the name “locked-in syndrome” in 1966, 33 years after his death. In 1901, though, doctors weren’t sure what to do with a baby who didn’t move or cry. Gloria was the only person who didn’t care, the only one who didn’t panic when he never rolled over or babbled or grasped at her hands. 

As Alastor grew up, everyone who saw him gave Gloria unprompted, unasked for parenting advice. “You oughta put a pillow over his face,” her mother said disgustedly. “He ain’t hardly human!” She didn’t notice that Alastor, only four years old at the time, began to cry silently, tears running down his slack face and wetting Gloria’s shirt. 

Eventually, Gloria stopped taking Alastor far from the house. When she went to work, she turned on the radio and left him in the chair by the window. He was content to sit still and listen, wishing he could talk like the men he heard. He would say things people cared about, he would make people listen. Everyone, from coast to coast, would care about what he had to say. He would really communicate, not just blink in response to yes or no questions.

Alastor’s life, and indeed Alastor himself, changed when he was fourteen. Gloria brought a man home, but it wasn’t until he passed through the living room that Alastor recognized him as the doctor from his childhood. The one who said he was too retarded to feel, who encouraged Gloria to send him to an institution. Who told him to talk and pinched his neck when he couldn’t. Alastor watched Gloria set a place for the doctor, then closed his eyes when she sat him at the table as well. “My God- he’s still alive?” “Course, Dr. Ives,” Gloria said sweetly. 

Over the course of the meal, the doctor seemed to grow more and more tired, until he collapsed out of his chair and landed in an awkward heap on the floor. Gloria winked at Alastor and pointed to the kitchen. “Put a lil somethin’ in his food,” she giggled, picking him up. They sat on the floor, Gloria supporting Alastor from behind. “I never done this in front of you before,” she breathed in his ear, grabbing a carving knife from the table and holding it up so it shone in the light. “My daddy taught me this when I were your age. Mama never knew. You wanna do it, dear?” She adjusted his position, put the knife in his hand and closed his fingers around the handle. “I’ll help, if you wanna…” 

Alastor looked at the doctor who’d called him worthless, encouraged Gloria to get rid of him. The knife felt cold and hard, like the radio dials Gloria sometimes helped him twist. When she tilted his head back and asked again if he wanted to do it, Alastor blinked twice. Yes. He shivered when the blood hit his hand, and even though he knew Gloria was guiding his hand, he was the one touching the knife. 

That wouldn’t be the last time. When Gloria tightened his bony fingers around the knife handle, Alastor wanted to smile. So what if he couldn’t move? All those bastards who called him weak and helpless, they were at his mercy now. Gloria took to asking him if they should die, and he always blinked yes. Even if he didn’t know them, he hated them. Why should they have a life, when he had only his mama and the radio? Why should they be in control of their bodies, when he was trapped inside his?

Gloria came home with a boyfriend when Alastor was 26. He was tall, dark, and handsome, a northerner named Johnathan. Alastor hated him from the moment he asked, “And how old is your little boy?” He seemed stunned when Gloria told him- Alastor knew he was small, small enough that he passed for 10 or 11, but he didn’t need to be reminded. If he could choose, he would be tall, taller than everyone around him. He would be intimidating. 

Life was worse with Johnathan around. He was happy to help with Alastor, too happy. Too eager to pick him up, too eager to dress him, too eager to bathe him. Alastor was quick to realize he should be scared and quicker to realize there was nothing he could do. Gloria would never notice- she loved Johnathan so much she was willing to put up with his dog, a giant mutt who lived in the yard. Alastor’s greatest desire was to cut the damn thing open.

Johnathan came into Alastor’s room late one night, after Gloria was asleep. He sat on the bed and picked Alastor up, set him on his lap so the younger man could feel his erection pressing against his backside. “Gloria tells me you can think,” Johnathan murmured. “You’re perfect, you know that? You look like a child, but you’re an adult. You can consent…” But I don’t, Alastor thought, wishing more than ever that he could run, scream, bite, kick, scratch. 

As Johnathan pushed him onto his stomach, Alastor decided to focus on the sounds of nature outside, but that went out the window when he felt the pain. He saw lightning, he felt himself being ripped in half, and his only thought was “I’ll die, I’ll die, I’ll die, I’ll die…” When it was over, Johnathan picked him up, cradling him like an infant. Alastor closed his eyes as the man cleaned him, wiped the blood and semen from his thighs, and put him back in bed. 

The next time it happened, Alastor didn’t cry. He thought about what he would do to Johnathan if their positions were reversed, if he held the power. If he wasn’t being killed slowly every night. Alastor died every night for 6 years, until the day Gloria left him alone with Johnathan, and Johnathan left him outside. “You need to get some sunlight, baby,” he cooed mockingly. “Call if you need anything!” Alastor was left sitting against the house, closing his eyes to block out the sun’s glare, and he didn’t notice the dog until it was on top of him. The huge, powerful dog, almost bigger than he was. 

Johnathan told Gloria it was a tragic accident. “I set him in one of the porch chairs, just went inside for a minute… I swear the dog was tied up, but he must’ve gotten loose somehow.” He carried Alastor’s body into town and paid for the funeral, but left Gloria soon after. Her mourning was an irritation. Years later, he would close his eyes in bed and open them in Hell, only to find a tall young man standing before him. 

He was holding a microphone, and he was smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> yo i'm actually like really proud of this. also, charity hospital was a real hospital in new orleans in 1900.


End file.
